Are You Watching Closely?
by addictive-stigmata
Summary: It was every bit as frightening as they said it would be, but since I grew up in a world where bending steel bars and levitating willing volunteers was perfectly normal, the shock wore off fast..." Oneshot about Thalassa's surgery. My first fic here.


A/N.

**MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR AJ:AA. Don't read if you haven't completed the game!**

In GS4, so little is revealed about Thalassa Gramarye in-game that conceptions of her personality vary from player to player. Much of this story centers upon some of my ideas regarding the mysteries left unsolved regarding her involvement in the Troupe Gramarye. Much of the theories in this fic are just that, theories, and should NOT be taken as canon, although they are built upon facts and ideas that are canon.

This is a fanwork; more specifically, fanfiction. I don't own any of the characters or places used in this story. It's all Capcom. I also enjoy using big words, and for that I apologize.

- I Brake For Franzy // AsakiPhreek

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_"Pick a card. Any card. Don't let me see it, just turn it face-down...now, I'm going to cut the deck, so watch me...now put your card anywhere, from here to here...yes, that's right...I'm going to shuffle the cards, keep watching now...I'm shuffling, you're watching."_

Magicians, us Gramaryes included, have always had a thing for sight. _Are you watching closely? _they ask, then repeat it as if their own echo was answering them: _are you watching closely? _The spectator then scrutinizes every movement the magician makes, struggling for a solution, fearing to be fooled. However, during my years in Borginia, I learned that the blind watch with their hands, their fingertips serving as windows to the world. It is a strange way to live, but I have lived it for several years, growing to accept it as I wandered through what seemed like an eternal night.

However, the shroud of darkness in which I lived and worked, no matter how ordinary it became, turned into a veil of sadness thick enough to choke me. Too much of anything, they say, is no good. I learned that in Borginia, too. You can't walk for long without falling over something. You can't think for long without digging up bad memories, even though I didn't have any. And you can't live for long when you can't see the light of day.

Which, in fact, I couldn't.

In time, the true nature of my condition got to me, and I arranged for ocular surgery. It was an expensive procedure, but Lamiroir was an extremely profitable name in Borginia, and that put me in a good position as far as money was concerned. I negotiated with the record company over the phone. They refused to help me at first, but then I threw down my robe. The blind couldn't lead the blind for long, I told them. After several heated discussions and many Borginese vulgarities, they eventually agreed to wire my funds to America. When they did, I called the hospital to secure a date for the operation.

I could just picture the headlines in the Daily Bugle. _Siren of Song Sells Out With Sight_, perhaps. It would later remind me of that God-forsaken reporter who showed up at our magic shows from time to time, reeking up the whole theatre with the scent of mint. I laughed at the thought. I began to feel a tinge of regret, but that was quickly replaced by the excitement of being able to see with something other than my fingertips.

This anticipation stayed with me until they finally put me under, drawing me into a darkness that was more frightening than any kind of blindness, and began working on my eyes. The surgeon in charge said that this operation was often used on amnesiacs to get their minds back, and that even normal people would remember a ton of things from their past, to a degree that would prove frightening. He was correct. The Troupe Gramarye returned to me in a rush. My true identity was seeded in my mind once more. It was like having two minds, one rooted in Borginia and the other in California. It was every bit as frightening as they said it would be, but since I grew up in a world where bending steel bars and levitating willing volunteers was perfectly normal, the shock wore off fast.

When they took the bandages off my eyes, I was like a newborn child. The colors flooded my senses, flowing and blending like a giant kaleidoscope. I marveled at it all. It would be awhile before I could see normally, the surgeon told me, and that things would remain blurry until I could see perfectly again. I told him I didn't mind.

The first thing I asked about was the children. Aware of both my true identity and theirs, he said they were fine, which I expected, since I had met them both under the guise of Lamiroir during a particularly awful trial, although I didn't recall being their mother at the time. I could not see them or remember them. They were voices - voices that I had created. But those voices would serve well enough until my vision returned fully, allowing me to see them as they really were. They were my own flesh and blood, and I wanted to see them perfectly. I tried to form pictures of them in my mind based on what I already knew. By the time I reached my room, I had created about twenty different conceptions of my children, each one different, yet true to what I knew. I didn't think that any of them would be correct, but only time would tell.

And indeed it did - but it made sure to take its time.

The surgeon wheeled me to my bed, where I dreamt of my sightless past, my changed present, and the future - which, like my sight, was a giant but ever-changing blur, on its way to becoming something as clear as rain.

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5.3.09


End file.
